Blowdown
by David Ackley
Where I sometimes walk,
a thick old tree
has dropped athwart
a young maple;
lodged in limbs,
it gravitates
the maple's skyward press,
with long years yet
til rot's onset
and falling free.
Not without stress.
The younger warped
from true, straight
path to mother light,
solace of rain,
azure unbound,
by what can
neither be lifted
nor let down.
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Author's Note
just a new thing
Other stories by David Ackley
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Love *
Thanks so much, Marcelle: Can't beat "Love!"
nice.*
Gorgeous and lyrical little masterpiece! *
James, thanks for the read and comment.
Michael, any one of your words( save the "and") I never, honestly, in wildest dreams ever thought to see applied to my poetry.
Wonderful word dance between image and idea. *
Thanks, Beate, for the lovely comment, treasured from you.
Love the rhythm here. So sparse and perfect*
Thanks, Jen for the read and the generous words.
They make me think of tangled flying buttresses.
Really nice--economic, descriptive, beautiful. Definitely going on the wall by my desk.
I'm very honored, Will. Thanks so much.
you're writing about an old thing really...really enjoyed this.
Thanks indeed Marcus, so happy to have your good opinion of this piece.